From the Road #1

Thursday, March 20, 2008
7:20 a.m.

From a hotel that I’m told both Ted Bundy and Charles Manson stayed at—not at the same time:

Cold. It’s the only word I can really think of to describe my first night on the road with the boys. We initially reserved 3 rooms for 8 people, but once we got to Jellico, TN, most everyone decided that it would be best to just pay the extra fifteen bucks for the extra room so everyone could have a bed. This was fine by me. Collins and I roomed together. I guess this was because we drove together, though that wasn’t my idea. It all worked out though, and it’s probably best he was with me, because it snowed/rained the whole way down, and the visibility was shitty, and I’ve always found that when it’s like that, it’s nice to have a friendly voice chirping alongside me.

I’m pretty sure Collins is radioactive. This might be the real reason he finagled his way into my man-hating lesbian heart. His temperature is always 99.8 degrees. I never really believed him or cared until we were driving and I noticed that all the windows on his side of the car and his half of the windshield were fogged up for the entire five hour trip. It didn’t matter how high I cranked the defrost. In fact, turning it up only made matters worse, because the poor bastard was sweating to the point where steam was rising off him.

Now the unfortunate thing about a girl who’s always cold rooming with radioactive boy is, someone’s going to be miserable. Being the kind and generous person that I am, I told Collins that we could sleep in this icebox of a room (the very room that I’m sitting and typing in now) without turning the heat on. Now, I don’t know if you’re aware, but they don’t wash the comforters in these hotel rooms with any regularity. So, the first thing I do anytime I check into one of these swanky establishments is tear that fucker right off the bed. I don’t even sit on top of the thing. Well, last night it’s Collins sleeping happy as a pig in shit on top of what I’m sure is a very warm sleeping bag and me wrapped up like Nanuk of the North under a measly top sheet and thin-ass blanket. By about 4:00 a.m. my muscles were all tensed up from shivering and trying to conserve what little body heat the Good Lord gave me. The attempt failed and now I feel like I got run over by a truck. In case you’re wondering if I ever actually fell asleep last night, the short answer is no. The long answer is nnnnnoooooooooooo.

I’m told that the last part of our journey entails winding around a mountain for an hour or so, white-knuckelling it the whole way. If radioactive boy and I go over the edge of the mountain, could whoever finds this give it to my mother, and mom, could you make sure Jen T. gets a copy of this?

More later, hopefully.

I Don't Want to Show You Mine

On my first day of kindergarten, Kelly Simms was the girl who showed up dressed like she was competing in a pageant. She wore a powder blue, frilly dress. At recess, I sat on the swing next to her. I think we must have become friends that day, but I don’t remember why or how that could have happened, because, while she was the girl that showed up dressed like she was competing in a pageant, I was the girl who showed up wearing shorts and a tee shirt, and, let’s face it, those aren’t the types of girls that usually become friends. In fact, I remember in the third grade finally telling Kelly Simms that she was the kind of sort of pretty girl who only wanted to be friends with girls who weren’t as pretty as she was, just so she would always look much better by comparison. I guess that made me kind of an odd third grader. I digress.

So, one day, in girl scouts (Girl Scouts?) Kelly Simms comes up to me and pulls her shirt away from her chest and says, “look.” As in, look down my shirt. What was a girl to do? She told me to look, so I did. To this day, it’s one of my biggest regrets. After I looked, she closed her shirt and said, “now you.” Well, I was already quite modest by then, so I did the only logical thing I could do. I ran away. I don’t remember exactly how Kelly Simms retaliated, but I know she wasn’t happy. I believe she may have gone with the old, I showed you mine, so you have to show me yours, defense.

Well, one day, later on in our kindergarten careers, this group of old ladies with puppets came to our classroom to talk to us about “personal space” and how it was never okay for someone else to invade your “personal space.” At the end of the old ladies’ routine, they took some questions from the class. I don’t remember what sorts of questions my classmates asked. All I remember is that I sat there, ready to throw up, convinced that Kelly Simms was going to raise her hand and tell the little old ladies and their puppets that I had molested her that day in the girl scouts (Girl Scouts?). I don’t remember ever being so nervous before or since. Well, that’s a lie. One time since.

When we were in the first grade, Kelly Simms and I were still friends. One day, without any warning at all, the little old ladies showed back up with their puppets. They gave the same routine. I sat there, once again, ready to throw up. I might have sweat profusely, or I might just be making that part up to help increase the dramatic tension of my story. In either case, I was sure I was going to jail. Thankfully though, Kelly Simms did not rat me out, but this didn’t help the guilt, because now I was thinking, are these little old ladies going to put me through this every year? I don’t remember if it was the same day, or a few days, or a few weeks, or a few months later, but eventually my guilt and fear started to erode the productivity of my everyday life.

Here’s where we get to the climax. One afternoon, after school, I said to my mother, “I have to tell you something.” My mother asked what was wrong. I don’t know how long it took me to spit it out. I just remember the two of us sitting on the floor in the hall, and me sobbing, and my mother probably thinking that I’d killed someone, because that really is how hard I was crying. I think I finally choked out, “one. time. at. girl scouts (Girl Scouts?). I. looked. down. Kelly’s. shirt. and. then. I. wouldn’t. let. her. look. down. mine.” It was the hardest thing I ever had to say to someone, ever.

“Well, why in the hell did she want you to look down her shirt?” My mom has always had a great way of making me feel better by pointing out that everything I feel bad about is someone else’s fault. I love that about her.

In case you were wondering, I’ve never been arrested for molesting Kelly Simms. I’m not sure what the statute of limitations is on that sort of thing. I feel like there isn’t one. I feel like, even when I’m seventy, Kelly Simms might still be able to tell on me, and the cops could still arrest me, and I might have to register as a sex offender.

So that’s my Kelly Simms story. Now for a much shorter Kelly Simms’ mom story. This kid, Nathan Yux, had a birthday party at Hardees when we were in the third grade. During this party, Kelly’s mom not-so-casually leaned in and asked me, “Have you started your period yet?” What kind of a question is that? I think, without my knowledge, I must have been in a race to menstruation with her daughter, and she wanted to make sure I hadn’t won. It was at that moment that I decided that maybe Kelly came from an even stranger family than I did.

Number One Reason I Suck at Life

Dear Carrie,

Please stop assuming that no one knows what you're talking about. You are not the queen of trivia and pop culture. Billy Joel, for example, is one of the most popular singer/songwriters of our time, so please do not talk to me like I'm three and spoon feed me thinly veiled references to his songs. I have his Greatest Hits CD too. Also, who hasn't watched, Scooby-Doo? I know who Hanna-Barbera are, and I know what cartoons they were responsible for. What's that, you say? The Flintstones was inspired by The Honeymooners? Gee, I had no idea, because I've spent my life under a rock.

In the future, if I don't understand some not-so-clever little pop culture reference in one of your stupid blogs, I'll ask. Stop treating me like I'm a moron. It's insulting, and it makes you look stupid.

Thanks,

Your Jiminy Cricket-Like Alter-Ego

Friction Down Below

Because Josie called, "bullshit" on me, I'm reposting this.  I wanted nothing to do with it, so I had to reproduce it from memory.  It's a bit beefier this time around.  Pun intended.  I'll get back to the funnier posts soon.  I promise.  Unless, of course, you find my self-loathing funny, in which case, I'd like to dedicate this post to you.

I'm conscious of the swish swish swishing that announces every step I take through the library.  You look up, slightly annoyed that I've broken your concentration.  Embarrassed, I break eye contact and switch to a wider corn-cob-up-the-ass kind of gait.  It's only a matter of time before I rub a whole in the crotch of these jeans too.  I try, for as long as possible, to put off my inevitable trip to Old Navy, worried that this will be the time I discover that I've expanded further than their biggest sizes can contain.  If I'm lucky, I'll be able to buy a couple pairs in colors that I don't particularly like, but that I'm stuck with because they don't bother stocking all the sizes in all the colors.  I'll walk away, like I did on Friday, with a light wash, the likes of which I haven't seen since the early '90s.   

I'm in a German Village State of Mind

For those of you born after 1976, that title's a reference to a Billy Joel classic. Also, in the interest of full disclosure, it should be noted that I've been drinking. Six pints (the American 16 oz. and not the British 20 oz. that is) of New Castle are coursing their way through my bloodstream. What I'm saying is, this is the drunk-dial version of a blog post.

I hate snow. I have always hated snow. I don't hate the situation it puts people in.

Today, I didn't even bother putting underwear on until 6:00 p.m. I had Ramen Noodles for lunch, and couldn't bear the thought of having them for dinner. I was hungry. "Mom, you don't understand. Where I live, the people working in the restaurants live close enough to walk. They will be open, because the people eating and drinking there also live close enough to walk. I will not starve to death." My mother, who lives in a suburb of Dayton, didn't sound convinced.

It took me fifteen minutes to walk two blocks. The snow was up to my knees, and, even though I was wearing my Dr. Martins, I was sliding all over the place. I peered into the Easy Street Cafe and saw dozens of folks drinking and laughing and eating (in that order). Thank God, I thought.

Sometimes people feel sorry for the pathetic single person sitting at a table alone, pretending to read a book. Fuck that. People watching is so much easier when you're by your onesy.

As I sat and read, The Other Paper, Columbus, OH's free newspaper, I saw all the heads in the bar swivel to my left. At the traffic light outside, not one but two trucks were stuck in a 2 foot ridge of slugde. The man in the second truck got out, realizing that he was in a, "we're-in-this-together" situation with truck driver #1. As truck driver #2 pushed the other truck into one of the worn down, icy track marks on the main road I asked, okay, now who's going to help driver #2? The answer was, no one. Ten people, at least, stood up and pressed their hot moist noses up to the window of the bar, just watching and laughing and placing bets as to whether the poor sonofabitch would ever free himself and asking why in the hell he was driving in the first place. I thought, "this is so Seinfeld, I should help." As I thought this, another woman from the bar stepped outside. My thoughts changed. She's kind of cute, I thought. The two of us watched, she from outside in the cold, me from inside holding a newspaper, waiting for the man to rock back and forth, building the momentum to free himself. This failed and I thought, how pissed would I be if that was me and no one was helping? Then I thought, that girl is cute, and she'll think I'm a wonderful example of a human being if I go help. I shot up and walked outside. I looked at cute girl and said, "let's go." It was very, super-hero. The short version of this already too long story is, we unstuck the guy. It took us a few minutes, and I fell twice, and the other woman fell and hit her chin on the last push, but we got him out. We got him out while a bunch of men stood by and watched. Chivalry may not be dead, but it's the women picking up the slack in German Village. I spent the next two hours considering how cheesy it would be for me to buy the mystery good samaritan a drink. I can't lie though, I was also thinking, this was a two woman operation; she should buy me a drink. My point is, we shared a moment.

I'd never met anyone in The Easy Street Cafe, but blizzards have a way of bringing people together. "I live in Reynoldsburg," said the girl next to me at the bar, "but I saw that a storm was coming in, so I drove into German Village last night knowing, at least I'll have a bar to go to." This weather may be a little annoying, but the only inconvenience that derives from it is that people get a little more familiar with their neighbors.

But Would You Walk Across Hot Coals?

I have a rather clear memory of being 3 or 4 and having the woman who ran my preschool informing my parents that I don't eat my vegetables at lunch. Their master plan was, one day at lunch, they would give me I bite's worth of whatever the vegetable was that day. Well, somebody fucked something up, and they gave me one bite's worth of everything. A thimble full of chicken noodle soup, a tiny wedge of bologna sandwich, and one piece of iceburg lettuce with a tiny sliver of carrot on it. I sat at the end of a table by myself and ate my measly lunch. Afterwards, I was submitted to mandatory nap time. I remember laying on my cot with the knowledge that I'd eaten a vegetable at lunch, and I felt stronger, healthier, and like whatever nourishment I'd gained from the situation would be enough to last a lifetime.

My tastes have matured. I like enough vegetables to get by, but to this day, there is a quite long list of things that trigger my gag reflex on contact. Tomatoes, carrots, peas, broccoli, and mushrooms just to name a few.

Consider the last time you were in a large group situation and someone bought pizza without asking anyone what sort of pizza they like. One cheese, one pepperoni, one veggie. This is standard procedure--try to accommodate everyone without offending anyone. Imagine, if you will, the panic that set in during class last night when, out of the goodness of her heart, my professor bought the class pizza, a pizza that screamed, FUCK CONVENTION. A pizza with vegetables all over it. Green peppers, red peppers, onions, and yes friends, MUSHROOMS. This is a woman with chutzpah.

I feel that at a certain age, it becomes inappropriate to sit in a large group and pick individual toppings off your pizza. I'll have to consult Miss Manners to get the exact age, but I'm confident that it's something under 27. Couple this with the fact that I have tremendous respect and admiration for this particular teacher, that I would jump off a bridge if she told me to, and that I would, one day, like to earn her respect in return, and I was fucked two ways. I had no choice. I sat there and I ate the shit out of that pizza, mushrooms and all.

When I got home, I did an http://www.blackle.com search for the health benefits of mushrooms. This is what I found at http://findarticles.com: Researchers find new health benefits for mushrooms: The latest analysis techniques have enabled scientists at a U.S. university to find previously uncharted fibers with advantages for cardiac health in commonly eaten mushrooms. So, the way I see it, I'm good to go for another 24 years, but I still think I would have preferred jumping off that bridge.

Aww. Is Someone Feeling Sorry for Herself?

I've come to this page ten or so times tonight with every intention to write about, I don't know what. It just occurred to me that the title of my blog is "Disconnect." As in a lack of connection; a disparity. Funny seeing as how the reason I write the thing is so that I might feel a connection to something, which brings me back to why I've come to this page ten times tonight. I'm feeling a bit raw. A bit like I'd like to be in the fetal position. A bit like fucking, because, let's face it, isn't that everyone's favorite coping mechanism?

My mother is asleep on my couch. She has an appointment with her neurologist tomorrow. Next to me is a list of things we need to talk to the neurologist about:

1. White outs, because when she wakes up every morning, she can't see for about five minutes
2. Balance, because she's like a walking pinball
3. Cataract surgery, because, if nothing else, at least now she can see what she's stumbling into, unless, of course, it's less than five minutes after she's gotten up
4. Passing out, because apparently she blacked out last night and laid in the middle of the
living room yelling for my sister, who could sleep through a tornado, to come and help her
5. Need to change migraine medicine, because, the one thing we've found in ten years to help
her headaches causes severe breathing problems
6. After a bad migraine, balance issue seems to get worse, because, maybe it isn't just an
expression. What if her head really does explode?
7. Refill Percocet, because if you can't see and you keep falling over, you may as well be high.

"You know, I was thinking, there could be something really wrong with me," my mom said five minutes before she fell asleep. "I was thinking that as I was driving up here."

"Yeah, I was thinking that too," I said. I forgot to say, it's all I think about. Well, that and the fact that I'm graduating in two weeks and I have no money and no job. And how I haven't slept in a month. And, and, and, well, you can see how fucking is better.